Fatal Portrait
by SigalShleifer
Summary: A lonely, misfit Ravenclaw finds solace among the portraits lining the halls of Hogwarts, drawn into their stories until she encounters one that could be her undoing...
1. Chapter 1

Wren Woodworth lived for afternoons like these. Nearly the whole school was at the Quidditch match, and she could wander the castle without meeting another living soul, if she she was careful. The sunlight slanted in through the high windows, illuminating the portraits on the walls. She had never been down this corridor before, and she was thrumming with excitement at who she might meet.

Most everyone at Hogwarts considered the portraits on the walls amusing; two-dimensional representations of people long dead, easily dismissed and largely ignored. To Wren, they were a world unto themselves, a secret subculture hidden in plain sight. Most times the dead had more to say than the living, and they were worth listening to.

She came first upon a lovely oil painting of a young, blond girl in a white pinafore with a large blue bow. The girl stood in a sunlit garden, a gazebo behind her. She smiled at Wren.

"Hello," Wren said to her softly.

"Hello. I'm Annabel." The girl curtseyed jauntily, and Wren suppressed a giggle, returning the gesture.

"I'm Wren. It's a pleasure to meet you, Annabel."

"Say, come and meet my grandfather! He's altogether grand. Follow me!" Annabel dashed out of the frame and reappeared in the portrait next to her own. A portly man smoking an ornately carved pipe laid a doting hand on Annabel's shoulder, smiling affectionately at the girl. Annabel looked older here somehow, and somewhat sad.

"May I introduce you to my grandfather, Arthur Hemphill. Grandfather, this is Wren…"

Wren chuckled, filling in the blank. "Woodworth. Hello, sir, I'm happy to meet you." Wren inclined her head graciously. Annabel's grandfather warmed considerably at this.

"Charmed, my dear," he replied. "Lovely day. Quidditch match, is it? I can hear the Gryffindors chanting."

Wren grew silent, listening. She could hear them now, too. _Go go Gryffindor_. "Yes, sir. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff."

"I was a beater for dear old Slytherin myself."

"I'm in Ravenclaw, as you can see."

"Ah, well. Nobody's perfect."

"What house were you in, Annabel?"

"I died the summer before my first year."

Wren was taken aback. "I'm sorry. Still, you're part of the place, aren't you?"

"Forever. And it's always summer with me. Why aren't you at the match?"

"I'd rather explore. I want to see every portrait in the castle, and as I've only been here since term started and it's my first year, I've a daunting task ahead."

"Alister tells me you play the violin beautifully," said Mr. Hemphill.

"Alister Greeley? From the portrait by the small hall in Ravenclaw tower?"

"The very same. He's an old friend. He was a minor composer, you know."

"Yes, sir. I've played some of his concertos."

"Do come and visit us again, when the staircases allow," he answered, drawing on his pipe. Smoke curled before his face, and his features disappeared. Wren knew she was being politely dismissed, and bid them both farewell, moving on.

The hall was drafty, but not unpleasantly so on such an unseasonably warm day. Soon the skies would thicken with slate-gray rain clouds and the light in the hallways would change from honey-gold to ashen.

The next portrait was of a young man jumping a horse over a hedge; he was dressed for a foxhunt and clearly too busy to talk, though he waved at Wren in passing. Some portraits were more reticent than others, and resented her intrusions. Others were happy to see her, and she could while away the hours in conversation with them about history and muggle politics and music.

Wren's mother had told her on the train platform just before Wren departed for Howarts that there was a portrait of her own grandmother, Cecilia Woodworth, somewhere in the castle, but that Wren would have to find it on her own. Thus far none of the other portraits would tell her where it was, as if they were in on the secret. The hunt was thrilling; Wren's grandmother had died when Wren was only six, well-loved and sorely missed, and Wren longed to see her again.

After the portrait of the horseman came a stodgy bunch of magical lawyers arguing a case who had no time for curious girls, and a self-important Viscount who turned his nose up at the commoner before him, then promptly exited his frame. Wren snorted with derisive laughter and moved on.

A great cheer rose up from the direction of the Quidditch pitch. Someone had won. Wren reached the end of the hall and found a small, triangular door that opened on a seldom-used curving back staircase. There was a hasp on the door, but no lock. The air was slightly fetid here, as if it had not moved for centuries, and there was a layer of undisturbed dust coating the steps. The lone window, which was all the light there was here, was covered with the grime of years. Wren began descending gingerly.

Around the first curve of stone wall, just out of sight from the top of the staircase, hung a large portrait in a gilded frame. Wren froze, her eyes still adjusting to the dim, and took in the scene with gaping eyes. A girl near Wren's age stood in profile before a wall of flame, her face downcast, her entire form in shadow. Her hair was long and slightly curly, a deep mahogany, and she wore a beautiful dress of an indeterminate color, her skirts full. She clutched something in her fingers. Wren couldn't see what it was.

With agonizing slowness, the girl lifted her eyes to meet Wren's. Wren's throat constricted painfully, fear and dust choking her, and the smell of smoke she knew was not there. Cold rose up from Wren's toes, flooding her senses, eclipsing reason. Flames licked at the girl, but she was untouched, pristine in her colorless gown. "Hear my story," she rasped.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm Wren. Wren Woodworth," she mumbled, her mouth dry, her eyes burning from smoke that was not there.

"I'm so glad you've come. It's been so very long since I've seen another living soul."

"But you're never-" Wren bit off the next word, her face hot with shame.

"Alive?" retorted Abigail. Abigail had a buttery voice and spoke with a lyrical accent that Wren couldn't identify. Each word was laden with power, heavy with grief, and drew her in. "There are many kinds of life, Wren. Many ways of existing. I endure."

"Why is your portrait hanging here, where no one can see it?"

"They want to banish me. That awful old Mister Filch moved me in here decades ago and left me here to rot. I cried out to him not to leave me here in the dark, not again, but he turned his back on me."

 _Again_? The word died in Wren's throat. "But that's awful!" she said instead. "Who would want to get rid of your portrait?"

"The Headmaster. The Board of Governors. All of them. And they have, haven't they? No one ever comes down here. No one comes near. Not even the scrub-elves."

"Filch is a right miserable wanker," answered Wren with a shudder. Abigail giggled conspiratorially.

"Imagine that frightful lecher laying his hands on you."

Wren grimaced. "Where do these stairs lead, Abigail?"

"I don't know. Somewhere damp, I reckon. I smell water sometimes, and mildew, and other older, fouler things."

"Maybe they aren't planning to get rid of your portrait. Perhaps they don't know Filch moved you here."

"At least I'm still here," said Abigail with deep resignation. "At least he didn't put me in the fire, like mother did."

Wren's gorge rose in horror, acid rising to burn the back of her throat. "Your mother burned you alive?"

"She tried to. She put my portrait in the fire, but it wouldn't burn." Abigail made a sweeping gesture toward the all of flames behind her. "What she did was worse."

"But why? Why would she do such a thing?"

"Listen, and I'll tell you. My father was Gabriel Von Arx, the finest chocolatier in all Switzerland. You may know the name."

"Yes, of course I do. I get a box of Von Arx truffles every Christmas. They're my favorites."

"They were mine, too, and our orange creams, which father made at my request. I helped him create the original recipe. You see, I shared his passion for making fine confections, since birth, it seemed. I was destined to inherit the business from him; he knew how much I loved it. It was in my blood, you see."

Wren nodded dreamily, captivated by Abigail's melodious, soothing speech, ensnared by her story already. Abigail's features had become clearer, the fine details more easily seen now. She had startling hazel eyes and a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Wren felt dull and colorless next to her. Abigail would have been a dazzling woman, forever captured now on the threshold of adulthood within her gilded frame like a dried flower from a summer day long past. Wren was gripped with sadness at such lost potential, and a flash of insight into a future that had been cruelly thwarted somehow swept over her.

"Mother loved father madly," Abigail went on. "Such madness it was, Wren. She could not bear that I was the apple of father's eye, his everything, that he preferred my company to hers. Father had love enough for us both, but she could not see it, she would not see." A sob tore from Abigail, and Wren rose shakily and drew closer.

"I began to bloom, just as you are, just as we all do at this age, and mother could take no more. She was an exceptional witch, though she had not power enough to crush father's devotion to me, or even quell it a little. After my second year at Hogwarts, father and I were to take a trip over the summer holiday to see what other confectioners were doing all over Europe, sussing out the competition, as it were.

Mother would not hear of it. She could have come along. We could have had a grand holiday, a memory to cherish, but she poisoned father instead with a potion that made him so ill he lay near death for months. She dismissed the household staff, locked me in the attic to die and told anyone who asked that I had been sent away for my health while father recovered from his wasting disease.

Left alone to carry out her plan, she began painting my portrait. With every stroke of her brush, a part of me died, and my life drained away until I was trapped here. She could not bear the guilt of actually taking my life while facing me, but she could not suffer me to live, either.

Once it was done and the last stroke painted and the brush still, she took my portrait down to the cellars and hid it away, and brought in a muggle from the village to dispose of my corpse, a man she destroyed after it was done. She then administered the antidote to the poison she had given father and nursed him back to health. Father regained his strength to learn his only daughter had died in a skiing accident in the Alps, my neck supposedly broken. I was interred in the grounds of our estate, and a mock funeral was held. Life went on, for everyone but me."

"Oh, Abigail, whispered Wren, her fingertips ghosting over a corner of canvas. The surface was smooth, and hot to the touch. Wren snapped her fingers back, aghast. This was dark magic. Dark, and old.

Abigail regarded her sadly. "In his dotage, my father began to hear me calling to him in his dreams, telling him what had been done to me, where I was. Mother caught him in the cellars looking for me and hexed him with the Imperius curse. When he was safely out of the way, she dragged my portrait upstairs, built up the fire, and tossed it in.

I fought for what was left of my life, and sent burning embers out to set the curtains aflame. I only wanted help to come, someone to save me from the fire, but mother had done her work too well. My portrait would not burn, but the house did. Father, Imperiused, had wandered off, and mother could not find him in time. She had spent much of her power painting my portrait all those years ago, and in so doing, doomed father, and herself. She became trapped upstairs. They both perished in the blaze.

My portrait was all that survived the fire . After that, I languished for many years in the storeroom at Borgin and Burkes. Father was a great benefactor of Hogwarts, and so I was brought here in memory of him. But now, he has been forgotten, and so have I."

Wren was surprised to find her face wet with tears. Abigail watched her with shining eyes full of infinite sadness.

"I won't let you be forgotten," Wren uttered softly.

"Will you be my friend, Wren? I've been so desperately lonely."

"I will. Of course I will. Can you not visit the other portraits, Abigail?"

"No. I think it is because of all the evil that was done. Magic like that leaves a sort of residue. I'm well and truly trapped."

"I wish we'd met before the Quidditch match started. I could've smuggled you up to my room by now, with none the wiser."

"Filch used some kind of spell to affix my portrait to the stone."

"Filch is a squib. I'll find a counterspell."

"Oh, you're a dear. I'm ever so grateful."

"So am I. I've no real friends here."

"You do now. Please come back for me soon. Promise me you will."

"You have my word."

They spoke of inconsequential things then, as friends do, discovering each other's dreams and dislikes until the hour grew late and the wan light from the lone window nonexistent and Wren had to return to her dorm before night fell fully, or she risked losing Ravenclaw points. It was very hard to leave Abigail behind, and Wren went to bed that night with a full mind and heart, pondering all she had heard with wonder and a sick dread that clung like the beginnings of illness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep eluded Wren that night, her thoughts roiling with all Abigail had told her, and when she finally fell into an uneasy slumber just before dawn, she dreamt of a kindly man wandering the depths of a dungeon-like space crowded with priceless antiques covered with old, yellowed sheets, calling in vain for his daughter, his voice swallowed up in the lifeless press of inanimate objects.

Wren stumbled through her classes, unable to transform a field mouse into a teacup in Transfiguration, though it was usually her best subject. She nearly nodded off in Potions, until a stiff rebuke from Professor Snape set her heart racing. Over and over again she traced the route back to Abigail's portrait in her head.

Midafternoon, she trudged gratefully to her study hall period, straight for the library where she began digging for books on old wizarding families. At last she found one in which Gabriel Von Arx was listed. There was the tragic story of Abigail's untimely death in a skiing accident and Von Arx's own death and that of his wife many years later in the fire, the fire Abigail's mother had started, though the book said only that the circumstances were unknown. The date of their deaths was November 13th, 1887. Abigail had been trapped inside her portrait nearly 150 years now. Wren's vision blurred with tears, and she could read no more.

* * *

The soothing sight of the Ravenclaw common room was exceedingly welcome when at last the long school day was done, though it was far from over for Wren. She took in the room with greedy eyes, as if seeing it for the first time: the soothing, deep blues, the starry sky on the ceiling overhead, the diffuse light spilling in through the beveled windows. Wren's gaze lingered on the curtains. Just one panel would be enough to wrap Abigail's portrait in.

A girl sprawled on a divan in front of an overstuffed, curving bookcase shot Wren a baleful look. Wren ignored her, making for the stairs and the haven of her room. She longed for her violin, to give voice to everything this day had made her feel. Already half a symphony about the life and undeath and imprisonment of Abigail Von Arx was composing itself in her head, and she was anxious to capture the notations before they slipped inexorably away.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Luna Lovegood intercepted her at the base of the stairs. Luna was kind, and friendly, and genuinely cared about others, and Wren could not bring herself to dismiss the other girl despite the heavy weight of her own distractions.

"Quibbler?" said Luna brightly, offering Wren a copy of the latest edition of her father's newspaper, which Wren always read and found intriguing, if a bit odd. Luna's father was a conspiracy theorist, and an afficionado of little-known magical creatures, superstitions, and ailments.

"Oh, yes," replied Wren, taking the paper. "Thanks, Luna."

"I'd like your opinion on dad's article about the uses of billiwig bile, when you have a moment."

"Of course."

"Going to practice your violin now?"

"Yes. I've an idea for a composition."

"I thought you seemed a bit distracted today. I won't keep you, then, maestro." Luna squeezed Wren's shoulder companionably and wandered off toward the tea cart. Wren was tempted to join her, but sped upstairs to her room, stomach growling in protest.

She tossed her bookbag into a corner and scooped up her music notebook from her small desk, spending the next three quarters of an hour furiously scribbling the notes for the main theme in her head onto the pages, the notebook propped against her knees. She felt a sort of exhausted triumph when she was done, and a longing to tell Abigail about the music in her head. Her bed was so very soft, and she let her head fall back against the wall and her eyes close as her thoughts spun out and then grew quiet.

Sneaking out at night was a risky gambit that could lose her house a lot of points, as the Gryffindors could attest to. But how else to get Abigail all the way up here? Wren was already an outcast, so her stature in Ravenclaw would not diminish, only worsen if she were caught. A simple spell would be far easier. _Accio_ , or some such, but someone was sure to see a portrait whizzing through the air, unless she brought it in through the window, and then there was the accursed restriction on underage magic, even here. There was no one whose help Wren could enlist, no one she could trust with Abigail's secrets. Not even Luna.

She would just have to take her chances. There were no such restrictions on Abigail; perhaps she could aid Wren in some way. Wren set aside her notebook and stretched out, her hands behind her head.

Her room was at the very top of the tower, and the ceiling slanted overhead in a way many would find claustrophobic, but Wren loved it, and had festooned the strange, close angle above her with pictures of flowery fields and thunderstorms and great composers. Abigail's portrait she would hang on the far wall, which was bare and empty and waiting, mused Wren as she drifted into sleep.

* * *

She woke cold, hungry and disoriented, and knew by the darkness filling every corner she had slept through dinner and beyond. She rose and pressed her ear to the door. Utter silence. She changed out of her robe and into a warm turtleneck and black jeans and trainers without bothering to light a candle, holding her breath as she opened the door and began descending the stairs, her fingers trailing against the curve of the stone wall beside her. She heard girls giggling and chattering behind several doors as she passed, as they probably often did when Wren was oblivious in her room above them. Soon she would have her own friend to gossip and conspire with.

The hour must be earlier than she thought, if so many were still awake. Wren sped up, lest one of the girls pop out to go back to their own room and see her. If she could make her way to Abigail, she could hide out there until the castle was asleep.

She crept soundlessly into the common room, straining for the sound of hushed voices or pages being turned. There were none. She padded across the room and stood for a long moment before the curtained window that had drawn her attention earlier, quickly deciding not to take the curtain down. It would be too ungainly to carry if she had to run.

Her heart drumming loudly in her chest, Wren stole from the common room and out into the castle proper, her throat clenched in fear. She began to concoct a story about feeling ill and going for help in case she was caught, and pinched her pale cheeks to redden them as if with fever. She was certainly perspiring enough to convince whoever might take her unawares.

She picked up speed, sticking close to walls, dashing between shadowed doorways and stopping to look both ways. Anyone might be roaming the halls here at night while the students were safely tucked away. Filch, for one.

And Peeves, the wretched menace of a poltergeist. There he was, floating along at the other end of the hall like the paid help on patrol, muttering something to himself in his singsong way. Wren bit back a curse and hunched into a darkened alcove. _Abigail, if you can hear me, I'm coming, Make me invisible, let Peeves pass me by unseen_.

Peeves shrieked in sudden alarm, unleashing a torrent of expletives that made Wren blush, and she dared a peek around the wall. There he went, zooming off as if stung, vowing revenge. Wren held her breath against a fit of hysterical laughter, gathering herself to move on. "Nice one, Abigail," she whispered defiantly under her breath.

At last she reached the juncture of staircases she sought without meeting any other obstacles, save the staircases themselves. The staircase that led to the corridor that held the portrait of the girl in the white pinafore, Annabel, had moved, and Wren knew no other way there other than risk another staircase and the possibility of becoming hopelessly lost. She would surely be caught out of bed then.

She tried desolately to transmit all of this to Abigail somehow, lingering as long as she could, waiting for the staircases to move again, but they remained fixed, as if mocking her need. She slouched inconsolably back the way she had come, empty handed, heart aching, uncaring now about the price of her transgression if she were discovered. Before she knew it, she was back in her own room again, none the wiser, except for Abigail, who wept hot tears that were tinged with gold by the flames dancing behind her, wan moonlight glinting off the gilt of her portrait's frame.

* * *

Three days passed before the staircases were aligned properly when Wren was there and at last able to return to the hall where Abigail was hidden away, and Wren flew up the stairs and down the corridor to the small door at the end, heedless of the hasty greetings called out from the portraits on the walls as she passed.

Wren nearly crumpled when she saw the lock on the door, shining with newness, with malice. "No," she wheezed. "Please don't let it be too late. What if in her absence someone had taken Abigail's portrait down and hidden it away somewhere else, or destroyed it?

"Abigail?" Wren called softly against the locked door.

'Wren?" came a faint cry, almost inaudible, and Wren wondered if she had imagined it.

.

"Yes, it's me. Someone's put a lock on the door!"

"It's only an illusion, so no one else would find me before you could come back for me. Touch it, and speak your name."

Wren did as Abigail asked, and the tiny, golden lock disappeared in a shower of sparks that left Wren's fingers tingling with a pleasant warmth. She flung the door open and pulled it quickly closed behind her, stumbling down the stairs and rounding the wall of stone as fast as her feet could carry her on the narrow, time-worn steps.

"Oh, Abigail, I'm ever so sorry it took me so long to return, it seems the universe was conspiring against me."

"Against us. But I knew you would come, I'm so happy, so delighted to see you. I've never had a friend so true. I nearly fell into despair, but I knew you'd come, and here you are, dear, beautiful Wren."

Wren was beaming. "Now to get you down from there. You said Filch used some kind of spell?"

"Just a simple word. Muggles could do it, if they only knew the word."

"But you couldn't speak the word, to free your portrait from the wall?"

"No. It must be done by someone else, someone who wants to move my portrait, but not destroy it. Someone who cares. A failsafe put in by my mother when she painted it, the very same that doomed her when she tried to burn my portrait in the fire."

"What's the word, Abigail?"

" _Relashio_. Get ready to catch me."

Wren sidled up close to the wall beneath the portrait and spoke the counterspell. The frame came instantly loose from the wall with a snap that sounded like a knot of wood bursting in a fire, and Wren staggered under the sudden weight, dancing desperately for balance until her back thudded against the opposite wall and she was still. Her grip held, and she lowered the portrait gingerly until its weight was on the step and Wren could catch her breath.

"Well done!" cried Abigail.

"Now, if only we could apparate back to my room. It's still only afternoon, and there's no hope I won't be seen."

"Yes there is. I'm afraid I can't apparate, or I'd have left this place long ago. I can effect a sort of dream state that causes anyone who sees us to think they are just daydreaming, like a flight of fancy that is forgotten immediately. That, or descend the stairs and see where they lead."

"It's far too dark down there. Let's try your way. You're sure?"

"Yes. It's old magic, and a bit dark, but these are desperate times. Father taught me how to do it so I could hide in plain sight from my friends during games."

"It's how you helped me when trying to get here before, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What did you do to Peeves?" asked Wren, smiling wryly.

"Nothing he didn't deserve. He has taunted me without mercy since the day I was brought here."

Wren clucked sympathetically. "Tally ho, then. Work your magic." She hefted the portrait, using her body as a counterweight, balancing it against her hip. It was rough going, and Wren had to stop several times to breathe, her hip feeling bruised already. The stairs were still aligned, and the castle relatively quiet; it was a beautiful, cloudless day, and no one could bear to be indoors.

The entrance to Ravenclaw tower was in sight when Wren felt something clinging to her leg. She gaped in horror. "It's Filch's cat," she hissed.

"She can see us plain as day," Abigail answered urgently. "Cats are not fooled by this particular spell. Hurry, Wren, before she follows us into the tower."

Wren broke into an awkward run, the portrait frame banging against her. Mrs. Norris, the cat, let out a surprised yelp from behind her, in hot pursuit. A boy passing on his way to the Great Hall stared at the disturbed cat in alarm, then continued on his way, head swiveling for a last look.

Wren halted suddenly and growled at the cat, who arched her back disagreeably, snarling at Wren. The cat backed up a step, giving Wren just enough time to reach the door to the common room and speak the password breathlessly, leaving Mrs. Norris trapped outside. Wren shot through the common room and did not stop until she reached her own room and the door was closed behind them. She set Abigail's portrait carefully against her desk, and they both dissolved in a fit of laughter.


	4. Chapter 4

Though they had stayed up talking late into the night, Wren rose early anyhow, too filled with excitement to sleep any longer. Abigail still slumbered, her hands folded in front of her, chin nearly resting on her chest. How different she looked here, almost childlike, her heavy lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, strands of blond sparkling among the brown of her hair. Even the wall of flames behind her seemed muted here; less dangerous somehow. Abigail had barely begun to live when her mother had stolen her life away. Wren could not replace what had been taken from Abigail, but she could listen, and try to understand.

Wren slipped away to wash up in the communal bathroom, and returned to find Abigail bright-eyed and waiting. Wren dressed quickly so they would have time to talk before she had to leave for her classes.

"You look rested," said Wren as she sat on the bed plaiting her hair.

"Oh, the view out the window is breathtaking, Wren! I can see the sky and the clouds and hear the gulls crying. I'd forgotten how beautiful the world is."

"I'll leave the window open for you when I go, if you'd like."

Abigail was crestfallen and tried mightily to hide it, but Wren saw it anyhow. "I'm sorry. I'd rather stay here with you, believe me, and you've been so long alone."

"A few hours won't matter, not now that I'm out of that dreadful stairwell."

"When I get back, I'll hang your portrait properly on the wall, so you'll have a better view."

"You'd really rather stay here with me than attend classes?"

"Yes. If I'm honest, I don't want to be here at all. At Hogwarts, I mean, not here with you. I wanted to study music. I was accepted at Julliard, and at Morningstar Academy. That's a school for wizarding musicians here in Britain, on the Isle of Man."

Abigail squealed. "That's a place of great power. Father went there once. He said even the muggles thought nothing of seeing a house rise into the air there, or even disappear."

"Dad wouldn't hear of me going," Wren went on. "It was Hogwarts or nothing. He says if I still want to study music after leaving school, he'll make sure I able."

"I wish I could have finished," said Abigail dourly.

"Oh, Abigail, I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me to complain about being a student here, when you had all your school days stolen from you." Wren's eyes shimmered with tears.

"Don't cry, Wren. I've never had a friend like you. I want you to say whatever comes to your mind, and I will, too. Shall we agree?"

"Yes. Agreed." Wren tried to smile, her eyes clearing. "What house were you in, Abigail?"

"Slytherin. I begged the Sorting Hat to put me in Ravenclaw, though."

"And now here you are at last. I often wonder how it would alter the course of people's lives if they wound up in a different house."

"Or different schools. I was to attend Beauxbatons, but I insisted on coming to Hogwarts. I wonder if it would have changed my fate. Nothing could move mother once she set her mind on something. I've had ample time to consider such things, to wonder if I had withdrawn a bit from father, perhaps she would have let me be," mused Abigail. "It's my good fortune you're a Ravenclaw, or you mightn't have found me. Maybe my longing to be a Ravenclaw myself was a foreshadowing of this."

"Has no one else ever befriended you?"

"There was a woman who came into Borgin and Burkes regularly while I was kept there. She used to strike up a conversation now and again. There was a terrible muggle war on then, and it looked as if the whole world would destroy itself. Even the magical community lived in fear. She would give me regular reports, but the news was so horrifying I could scarcely believe it was true, people being herded onto trains and slaughtered by the millions in death factories."

"World War II," Wren said sadly.

"Do you mean to say she spoke truly?"

"I'm afraid so. It was a dark time in human history. Britain still bears the scars."

"Was my homeland destroyed?"

"No. Switzerland was neutral, though they did suffer some minimal damage from bombings and such."

"So we did nothing? There's so much I don't know, so much I have missed!" cried Abigail. "I am as ignorant as a babe."

"Not true. You just need someone to fill in the gaps, to explain what you've missed. You'll catch up. Not being able to communicate with other portraits put you at a horrible, lonely disadvantage. I'll do my best to remedy that."

"I'm so grateful for everything you've already done. You should go, or you'll be tardy."

"Shall I leave some music on for you?"

"No. Open the window, please, so I can hear the wind and the birds. Such music I have longed for."

Wren flung the window open as wide as it would go, happy Abigail's first day here would be sun-drenched and gentle. Her wounds were deep, and old, and healing would be long in coming, if it came at all.

"Lay some protective enchantments about the room after I've gone," Wren said softly over her shoulder, pulling the door closed behind her.

* * *

Wren was troubled all that day, though she hid it well. Again and again she thought of Abigail with no one to talk to since the 1940s. How had she kept from going mad?

On her way back through the common room that afternoon, Wren nicked a vaseful of flowers and a proper nail to hang Abigail's portrait on. Abigail shrieked with delight at the flowers, and sighed with contentment when her portrait was properly affixed to the wall instead of propped on Wren's desk.

"I can see the lake from here, and the forest! Oh, how glorious! It's so beautiful. I've had the best day, fresh air and birdsong and sunshine, I feel like the girl I was so long ago."

"The girl you still are."

"Wren, there's something I must ask of you, and you've done so much already."

"Anything.

"I wonder if you could find out what happened to the rest of my family, especially my uncle, Jan Anzeiger. It was he who abandoned me at Borgin and Burkes. He refused to believe his own sister could do the things mother did to me."

"I'll do my best to find out. Perhaps one of the other portraits would know. I'll try looking in the library first, to avoid arousing suspicion." Reluctantly Wren told Abigail of the book she had found that described Abigail's death in a skiing accident, the fiction her mother had cooked up to cover her crimes.

"A wretched lie," hissed Abigail. "There is no one now who knows the truth but you."

"But the truth deserves to be known. Look what she did to you! And you got no justice. What about the woman at Borgin and Burkes? Did you tell her your story?"

"Yes. She had empathy for me, but not enough to tell anyone else. I asked her to bring my portrait before the Wizengamot, so I could testify to the truth, but Mr. Borgin wouldn't allow it. He said I was a danger to others, with my lust for vengeance."

"But that's ridiculous! You were murdered by your own mother!"

"But not completely. I still exist, here, though it is no life I would wish on anyone. The heat from the fire reminds me every moment of mother's jealousy, her blind hatred."

"I'll take you before the Wizengamot."

"It is not so simple as that, Wren. Look what it took just to get me out of that stairwell. I am no better than one of Mr. Borgin's cursed objects."

"I'll find a way. Don't lose hope."

"How true you are. How noble. So few people care about those in portraits. To most, we are just part of the scenery."

"Not to me."

"You, who take the time to listen, How unhappy you must be here, turning to the dead for companionship. Is it so awful?"

"No. I mean, I suppose it's bearable. It might even be fun if I had my heart set on a magical career. Music is all I ever wanted, It's all I dream about, or did, until now. Helping you has become more important."

"I won't let you forsake your dreams for me."

"I'm just...setting them aside for a time."

"Still, you must keep up on your studies, and your music. I'll help you there. Will you play for me? I would dearly love to listen."

"Of course." Wren rose from the bed, reaching for her violin case. The cool air from the open window had thrown the instrument out of tune, and she fiddled with the pegs until the strings sang properly again. Abigail watched with rapt anticipation.

"I usually practice in a small hall downstairs, where I can conjure an orchestra to accompany me. Professor Flitwick approved my use of magic for this purpose at the start of term. He's a great lover of music and the Choir Master, as well as Head of Ravenclaw, to my good fortune. Lately, I've been working on the Four Seasons."

"Vivaldi! One of father's favorites, and mine."

"I'll play the first violin from the Winter movement. I find it stirring. So many string runs; I always think of a deer dashing through the snow, evading the hunters, a storm brewing on the black horizon." Wren put bow to tring and began, her fingers dancing effortlessly, her eyes drifting closed as she lost herself in the music, the violin cradled lovingly beneath her chin, her cheek nearly resting on the wood.

The silence after the music ended was strangely wrenching, except for the soft, whispering sounds of Abigail as she wept, her shoulders hunched and shaking.

Wren opened her mouth to apologize, to comfort Abigail, but Abigail cut her off. "It was so beautiful, and I was moved. I've not heard anything like it since I lived, truly lived. I understand your frustrations with life here now. What is mixing up a potion or making a hat fly, compared to that? It must be wonderful to have that kind of talent."

Wren was speechless. No one had ever come close to understanding what drove her, until now. The two girls watched each other, equals now, the bond between them a settled thing.

* * *

The next day was windswept and rainy, and Wren bristled at the close press of people in the halls who would normally be out of doors. The library was crowded, and her search fruitless. She was hesitant to ask Madam Pince for help, lest Abigail's portrait had been discovered missing and the name Wren sought connected to her. A bit of guileless flattery goaded the librarian into securing a pair of volumes for Wren that she could borrow for the night. Wren wondered idly if Professor Binns would be up to answering a few questions about Jan Anzeiger. She could claim it was for an assignment, as she had with Madam Pince.

Luck was with her, and she found Professor Binns slumped behind his desk, snoring softly. Binns had fallen asleep and died ages ago in the staff room, but continued to teach, and Wren found the old ghost oddly engaging, though most could barely stay awake during his long, droning lectures on Magical History.

She watched him for a moment, wraithlike and vaporous, wondering if he dreamed still. She coughed politely, shuffling her feet until he slowly woke. Binns coughed, startled and slightly annoyed. "Yes? Miss Woodworth? How can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to wake you, Professor. I was wondering if you remember a man named Jan Anzeiger."

"Anzeiger," Binns repeated airily, steepling his long fingers. His glasses had slid so far down his nose, Wren was waiting for them to fall off. "Ah, yes. As I recall, he was a solicitor. His firm had offices in both Paris and Bern. He specialized in the defense of dark wizards. A sort of counter-Auror, if you will. His bigger claim to fame is his legacy. His descendants were affiliated with the Nazis."

"His what? Do you mean to say they were sympathizers?"

"More than sympathizers. Active participants. There were more than a few dark wizards embedded in the Third Reich, my girl. How many, we may never know. Let's just say the Nazis would not have accomplished nearly so much without those like Anzeiger's blood kin in their corner, influencing muggle heads of state, making hithertofore troop movements possible, etcetera. Not just dark wizards, but wizard-controlled goblins and other magical creatures. Twas one of the worst encroachments of the muggle world into our own in magical history. Anzeiger's defense of practitioners of the dark arts laid the groundwork for his offspring's later foul acts."

Wren sat down hard in dismay and revulsion. "I simply had no idea. How perfectly awful."

"Indeed. What is your interest in Anzeiger?"

"I'm writing a paper for another class, and his name came up," Wren lied smoothly, her face hot with shame.

"You look ill, Miss Woodworth. Perhaps you should go take some air."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you for your help. Just one more question, if I may?"

Binns nodded assent, his spectacles wobbling precariously on the end of his nose.

"What happened to Anzeiger? How did he die?"

"One of his clients took revenge when Anzeiger failed him in court. You will most likely encounter him in your research. Oliver Lestrange."

"Thank you, sir." Wren rose shakily, still clutching the books Madam Pince had helped her find, heartsick at the thought of telling Abigail what she had learned.

* * *

Abigail grew silent after Wren shared the information about Jan Anzeiger and his descendants, so quiet she was like a muggle painting, inanimate except for the flames dancing behind her. Wren tried in vain to draw her out, her bereft profile tearing at Wren's heart, and Wren went to bed that night choking back unshed tears and had nightmares about Nazis commanding squadrons of giants and goblins and trolls that rolled through pastoral villages and left them smoking ruins.

She woke the next morning to a still-silent Abigail, shouldering her bookbag reluctantly. She turned on the radio for Abigail, searching for something that would not burden Abigail's heart further, settling on a wizarding news channel from London so Abigail could hear the latest happenings from all over Europe.

For once, Wren was glad of the distraction of classes, though the brewing of a potion used to heal burns set her teeth on edge.

Luna Lovegood caught up with Wren as she neared the Transfiguration classroom, clasping Wren's hand lightly.

"Hey. how are you? I haven't seen much of you lately. Have you been ill?"

"No, just distracted."

"What did you think of the latest issue of the Quibbler?"

"I liked it. Especially the story about Baba Yaga. I love Russian folklore."

"I'm glad. I knocked on your door the other night to see if you wanted company and heard you talking to someone. I'm happy you've found a friend."

Wren was grateful when someone called Luna away, sparing her a reply. She was in no mood to stammer some lie about the radio or some imaginary friend. Luna was far too observant as it was, and Wren could feel the other girl still watching her cannily even though her back was turned. It took effort not to run for the stairs.

Wren tossed her bookbag and the heavy volumes on notable wizards of the 19th and 20th centuries onto her bed and turned to speak to Abigail. Her frame was empty, the wall of flames in sharper contrast, more deadly-looking. Wren inhaled sharply, her mouth falling open.

"Abigail," she breathed. She drew closer to the portrait, as close as she dared, whispering Abigail's name. There was no sign of her, no hint that she had ever occupied the gilt-enclosed space that had been her prison for a century and a half. Had she leapt into the flames in despair?

Wren closed the window and opened the grate, chafing her hands together. The room was cold, and it seemed to settle around her heart. She pulled a blanket from her bed and wrapped up in it, paging through the first book for anything about the Von Arx family. She found a section on Abigail's mother, Cerise LeBlanc, born into privilege, a socialite from an old money family, benefactress of charitable causes. Wren snorted at this. A murderess supporting the poor and disadvantaged who had sentenced her own daughter to living death. There was a small pen-and-ink image of Cerise LeBlanc as she might have looked at the time of Abigail's death. She was beautiful, and soulless.

"Wren! Oh, Wren, is he gone?"

"Who?" answered Wren with such a start her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.

"Peeves. I heard him outside, though he didn't cross the threshold. He knows I'm in here."

"You're sure?"

"He spoke my name in his singsong way. My skin is still crawling."

"I thought he was restricted from the tower."

"Apparently not. He was taunting me. He's going to tell the Headmaster I'm here. I had to hide. I ran through so many portraits, I was lost. I thought I wouldn't find my way back to you. Oh, I was so frightened."

"I thought you were bound to that frame?"

"So did I. My need was so great, I..." Abigail's voice broke. "Perhaps the stairwell they banished me to has a charm of ward on it."

"But this is good news. Now you're free to leave your frame and explore the castle. Make new friends. Gain information. Perhaps Peeves did you an unwitting good turn."

"Until he destroys my newfound happiness."

"He won't. I won't allow it. No one listens to his nonsense. He's a ruddy nuisance. Professor Dumbledore is kind, it can't be he who exiled you to that stairwell, Abigail."

"Dumbledore? It was Headmaster Dippet who had me hidden away."

"But why?"

"He thought my story too tragic for the delicate sensibilities of the students."

"Your story is very troubling, and disturbing, but it deserves to be heard. Dippet had a responsibility to you, which he abdicated. I understand he was bogged down by other concerns back then, but that doesn't excuse him locking you away. I'm glad you're speaking again, you were so distraught-"

"About my uncle. Hearing who he really was brought back the memories of the day he left me at Borgin and Burkes. I begged him, I wept, he was all the family I had left, and he discarded me like rubbish. Like a cursed object that cannot possibly be sold, one that none were willing to destroy. I languished in the back room of that shop, oh, the dust was unbearable, the monotony, my only company my constant grief. Occasionally one of the shopkeepers would ask me a question about life in years past, but they paid me no more mind than the other unsalable goods stored there."

"Those days are over," said Wren firmly, and the two girls regarded each other until Abigail smiled.

"I see you brought some books."

"I did, but let's save them for later. Now that you can move about, will you join me in the small hall downstairs? I'll conjure an orchestra, and we can escape into music."

"I played the piano before...it happened."

"Oh, that's perfect! There's a portrait in the small hall of an elderly chap standing at the window, a lovely old Spinet just to the side, waiting to be played. Waiting for you. What do you say?"

Abigail beamed. "I'll race you there."


	5. Chapter 5

Abigail's existence began to expand, her self-awareness growing as she tasted her newfound freedom. There was color in her cheeks now that was not from the heat of the fire, and more than once Wren heard her singing softly; sad, old songs from days long before Wren's parents had been born.

Wren began the slow work of filling in the gaps in Abigail's memory, supplying the history she had missed out on so she would not feel like a stranger from some extinct world, but a living bit of history herself.

Abigail had begun tentatively making friends amongst the other portraits, though she trusted only Wren and still feared Peeves wherever she went. She had become adept at hiding. There had been no sightings of Peeves, and no one had questioned any student about a missing portrait, but both Wren and Abigail maintained a wary vigilance, protective of the bond they had formed.

"Tell me more about Graham," Abigail said one gloomy afternoon while Wren was doing her homework.

"He's your typical little brother.. Annoying. He's not so bad now that he's found his group of friends and doesn't follow me everywhere. He'll be a first-year here in just a couple of years. He's harmless, really. I think we'll like each other much better when we're older. I reckon we'll get on famously then, if we don't kill each other first."

Abigail giggled. "Do you like boys, Wren?"

"Sort of. They make me nervous. I never know what to say to them."

"Is there one you really fancy? A special one?"

Wren thought for a long moment. "Trent's alright. He's a musician as well, like us. Understands the rich inner life and how school just gets in the way. He's just a friend though."

"No one else? No one who makes your heart race madly?"

"There is, but he doesn't know I exist."

"Older?"

"A bit."

"What's he like?"

"Funny. Smart. Driven. He's in Gryffindor. I think most of the girls in the castle have their eye on him, and his twin brother."

"Ooh! A twin! How mysterious. Are they absolutely identical?"

"Yeah, but I can tell them apart. One of them has a tiny vein in his left eye. I bumped into him once and saw it."

'What's his name? The one you fancy?"

"George. George Weasley."

"Have you ever talked to him?"

"No. I wouldn't know what to say, and I get tongue-tied whenever I'm near him."

"You're blushing, Wren. It's really quite lovely on you. I'm sure he knows you exist. You're beautiful. Perhaps it's he who's afraid to approach you. I always wanted dark hair like yours, and full lips."

"Did you have a sweetheart, Abigail?"

"A suitor. Yes. We were both too young for more than brief, stolen moments of conversation and the occasional peck on the cheek, but, oh, I had grand hopes for the future. If not for mother…" Abigail's voice broke painfully.

"What was he called?"

"Lukas Altermatt."

"Shall I find out what happened to him? For you?"

"I already have, today. There's a portrait of his great-granddaughter near the entrance to Gryffindor tower. Lukas married one of my closest friends, Annelise Schaufel. He worked in the ministry and lived to be a very old man. Died in his bed with his family all gathered round."

"Oh, Abigail. How sad for you."

"It could have been my great-granddaughter in that portrait. It should have been. Don't let your George slip away without trying, Wren. You'll regret it always."

 _My George. I wish_. "What should I do?"

"Talk to him. Let him know you're intrigued. It won't be nearly as hard as you think."

"If only you could come with me," sighed Wren.

"Perhaps I can. There might be way."

"Tell me."

They stayed up late into the night, conspiring, until a plan was made, and Abigail watched in drowsy satisfaction when Wren finally slept.

* * *

Wren woke filled with a sense of possibility, as if nothing was out of reach anymore. She stole away to bathe and went shivering back upstairs to her room with wet hair that she brushed until it shone. Abigail greeted her warmly upon her return, giggling with advice on how Wren should do her hair.

"Maybe I should try a love potion. I don't think my natural assets are enough."

"Or a charm."

"I can't. It's against the rules."

"Not for me. Just a simple spell to make him notice you, to turn his head."

"It's you he'd notice, not me. You're really quite dazzling. All that confidence."

"I'll hook him, but you've got to reel him in. Are you sure about this, Wren? About my coming along?"

"Yes. Even if I fail with George, you will have gotten out of that frame and spent the day as a student. You were robbed of far too many such days."

Abigail blinked away tears. "It will be quite amazing, seeing life through your eyes. I wish there was another way. This is so...invasive."

"I'm ready for anything, It'll be an adventure, and I need your perspective to continue composing my symphony about your life and…"

"Death. You can say it, Wren.'

"Yes. That."

"As long as you're certain."

"I am. I'm ready."

"Close your eyes."

Wren sat down on her bed, squeezing her eyes shut, listening to Abigail whisper the words of the spell; they were like words in a language Wren had once known but had forgotten, teasing at the edges of familiarity. Her entire being hummed in anticipation, tensed against the unknown.

At first, it was like warmth flowing to muscle and sinew, like movement after too long a time of inactivity, and then it crept through her veins like a narcotic. Wren gasped at the presence of another consciousness, filled with memory, and longing, and anger. This must be what carrying a child was like, only this child was near grown, prescient, a shape-shifter molded from emotion and solitude and loss.

Wren's eyes flew open when the indwelling was complete. She expected to see double, but the world was still as it had been. Abigail's frame was empty now, only a painting of a wall of flame and flickering shadow, it's subject flown as if she had never been captured there by brush strokes driven by hatred and jealousy.

"Abigail?" Wren whispered in wonder.

"I'm here. Within. Oh, I want to jump, Wren, I want to dance! And run!"

"I'm dizzy," Wren stammered.

"I'm sorry. I'll recede a bit. It's just so overwhelming, feeling life again, real life, a beating heart, space to breathe in, room to move and legs to take me there. Give me a moment to becalm myself, I beg you, don't send me back, please."

"I won't. I'm feeling better now. Not like I was a moment ago, as if I were coming apart."

"I'm famished," said Abigail, her voice resounding in Wren's head, reverberating off the insides of her skull.

"I know," Wren laughed. All that Abigail hungered for need not even be spoken aloud now, it simply was, and their wants would be shared now, as one. Wren flew down the stairs, headed for the Great Hall, where Abigail's hunger could be quickly sated. Her other appetites would take a bit longer to satisfy.

* * *

"Is he here? Is that him, with the longish red hair?" Abigail asked coyly after Wren had finished eating everything Abigail had asked for.

"Yes. That's him."

"Oh, isn't he darling? What a handsome couple you'll make." Abigail fed Wren waves of self-assurance, which Wren greedily accepted. How had she ever been so frightened to approach him? Nothing was implausible now.

"Look, he's seen you," Abigail whispered jubilantly. "See his approving glance? Smile back at him. You look lovely today, why should he not take notice?"

"Even if it's you making it happen?'

"But it isn't. Hurry, smile at him before he turns away!"

Wren did as Abigail bid her, aghast when George Weasley responded.

"Bloody hell. He's coming over here. What do I do now?"

"I'll tell you what to say. Just relax, and remember to breathe."

George ambled over in his long-legged way, pushing past a knot of Gryffindors seeking his attention, hoping to enlist him in pulling a prank on a Slytherin neanderthal who wouldn't stop denigrating their house. George left them waiting.

"Hullo," said Wren, surprised her voice was not shaking.

"Hey. Your name's Wren, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Wren Woodworth. Ravenclaw."

"Nice meeting you, Ravenclaw. Want to eat lunch with me later? So we can get to know each other? I'll introduce you to some of my friends."

"That would be lovely."

"Brilliant. Join me at the Gryffindor table. See you then. I have to go, if I'm late for Charms again, I'm out, and that means a howler from mum."

Wren chuckled at him. "Alright. See you later, then."

George pushed the hair that was forever falling into his eyes from his face, giving her the guilty sort of smile that had attracted her to him him in the first place, the smile she'd seen him give others, but never her.

"I think my knees are going to buckle," she said to Abigail inside her head, watching George melting into the torrent of departing students, one of his friends giving him a congratulatory elbow in the ribs, then looking slyly back at Wren.

 _What if that was some sort of prank_ , Wren wondered fearfully. _What if they put him up to it just to see me disgraced_.

"It was genuine," responded Abigail. "With my help, you'll have him eating out of your hand."

"You're better than a love potion. Whatever spell you used, it worked."

"I did nothing. It was all you."

Wren was flushed with excitement, and the heady rush of new experiences.

"Before you know it, he'll be asking you to Quidditch practice, and for walks, and trips to Hogsmeade," Abigail purred.

Wren slung her bookbag over her shoulder, taking a long time to answer. "I hope you're right."

* * *

Abigail had spoken truly, and before liong Wren was indeed seated in the near-empty stands of the Quidditch pitch with a small group of girlfriends and hopefuls, come to support the objects of their affections, and there was a strange sort of sisterhood among them that grew more animated and comfortable as the weeks passed.

Wren's life had become very full as she juggled classes, music, and trying to spend time with George, and with Abigail. Wren was more determined than ever to somehow replace all that Abigail had been robbed of.

Other Ravenclaws began to notice the changes in her, the remarkable transformation from invisible wallflower to the confident beauty now spending time with one of the most popular boys in school, and rumors of illicit magic and black-market love potions abounded as some speculated on Wren's sudden, unexpected rise in status. George dealt with Wren's critics with his usual affable aplomb, and as he and Wren grew closer the gossip began to fade into the background.

Abigail was most pleased of all. Wren was beholden to her now. There was no going back to what she had been before. She had been loosed upon the world now, and she would not leave it without a fight.

* * *

That fight began innocently enough with a clandestine trip to the third-floor girl's bathroom, which Wren had discovered quite by accident while visiting portraits on the same floor, seeking news of her grandmother's location. There was a perfectly decadent, immense bathtub going unused there, with lovely jets of scented soap, and Abigail had goaded Wren into having a bath there, for both of them.

Wren had just gotten comfortable, luxuriating in the rich bubbles frothing up to her neck, when a wretchedly sad voice spoke.

"The two of you are welcome to stay, but _he_ has to go."

Wren craned her neck, searching for the source of the disembodied voice. A bespectacled girl hovered in midair up near the windows, nearly opaque from the light streaming through her. Her hair was pulled severely into two ponytails on either side of her head.

"You can see Abigail?" Wren asked tremulously.

"Of course. Any ghost could."

"Who is this he you refer to?" demanded Abigail crossly.

The girl lifted a long, thin finger, pointing. "The bloody spectre, over there. He isn't allowed in here."

Wren gasped. Peeves was floating upside down near the door, cross-legged. He blew a raspberry at all of them.

"Such trouble you're in, you and your sybil," he bellowed at Wren. "All the ghosts will tell the Headmaster, after I tell them. Abigail Von Arx has been set free, her portrait stolen by a student. Both of you will be banished, evicted, expelled…"

Abigail departed from Wren so swiftly that Wren cried out in pain, and like an arrow Abigail descended on the poltergeist, all her consciousness bearing down on him, not to force him from the room, but to destroy him. The two were locked in mortal combat before Wren could react, shrieking and clawing at one another's eyes, spitting venomous curses that filled the air like a sulfurous stench.

The bespectacled girl joined the fray without hesitating, and Peeves, outnumbered, wailed about honor in battle, uttering empty, wounded threats while Wren watched in speechless horror.

"I bind your tongue until you find a word worth speaking," Abigail hissed at Peeves, who clutched at his throat as if he were choking. Wren almost felt sorry for him. He whizzed toward the door and passed through it, dust motes dancing in a trail behind him.

Wren burst into tears, heaving herself from the bathtub. "He's going to ruin everything," she sputtered. "He'll enlist all the ghosts in the castle, and tell Professor Dumbledore. I'll leave school and take you with me before I let them force you back into that portrait again, Abigail."

"He'll do no such thing. Not now. I'll have a word with the Bloody Baron."

"The Gryffindor ghost? How can he help?"

"Peeves is terrified of him," replied the female ghost.

"Thank you for coming to my aid, Myrtle," said Abigail softly.

"How do you know my name?" asked Myrtle, her eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

"From one of the portraits. I'm Abigail Von Arx, and this is my best friend, Wren Woodworth."

"Tell me your story, and I'll tell you mine," said Myrtle, giggling conspiratorially.

Wren slid back into the tub, listening to Myrtle's tale of woe, embellished with more than a few dramatic moans. Abigail gave Myrtle the abridged version of her own death, and by the time she was done the bathwater had grown cold. Myrtle was quite impressed with Abigail's soothing speech, taken in by her story, which far exceeded Myrtle's own tragedy.

"It's time we were going, before Wren catches her death of cold in that tepid water," said Abigail.

"Yes, this is a good place to catch your death," Myrtle moaned, disappearing into one of the stalls with a heavy splash.

For the first time since Abigail had taken up residence, Wren felt a powerful longing to be alone, and she struggled mightily to hide it from Abigail, to no avail. Abigail said nothing, regarding Wren with a sad sort of resignation that they both pretended not to see.

* * *

In the days that followed, Wren withdrew into music, pleading illness when George asked where she had been; whey-faced and heartsick as she was, he believed her without question, and she moved wraithlike between classes and spent long hours with her violin, composing furiously, seeking a name for what was wrong with her. Maybe too much had happened too fast, and her emotions had not quite caught up yet. Perhaps she had not been as ready as she thought, for any of it.

Luna found Wren one afternoon sitting in the cold sunshine on the castle steps. "Alright there?" Luna asked, settling uninvited beside Wren, clutching her ankles above her high-tops, which were decorated with glittering hearts and arrows.

"Yeah. You?"

"Never better. Haven't seen much of you lately. How's George?"

"Dunno. We haven't spoken in a few days. I don't think we're seeing each other anymore."

"I'm sorry. You were a good counterpoint to him. He's so free-spirited, and you're more serious. I thought you balanced each other out nicely."

Wren sighed. "Ever just want to start over, Luna?"

"Of course. Everyone feels that way sometimes."

"Maybe I'm just homesick. Never thought I'd say that aloud."

Luna clucked sympathetically. "I'm going home this weekend. Why don't you come with me? Dad would love to have you."

"That'd be brilliant. Maybe a change of place will sort me out."

"Always works for me. We can fish for plimpies, visit the village. Dad always makes steak and kidney pie when I'm home at the weekend. Please say you'll join us?"

"If I can get Professor Flitwick to give me permission."

"I'll speak to him. Bring your violin. Dad loves music. I'm going to the kitchens to see if they've any apples. Long time till dinner, innit."

Wren's stomach growled in reply, and they both laughed at the sound. "Come on," said Luna.

They rose together and strolled off, the wind at their backs now, bracing and smelling of a rainy night to come.


End file.
